Its
Not Too Late
By Sharon
De Mello
Word Count: 2400
I hung up the phone and ran for the door. I didn't have time to think about putting on socks or grabbing a coat. I bolted to my red Nissan and prayed it would get me to my destination before it was too late.
I didn't care about what speed I was going, only that time was against me.
My mind was turning upside-down. "How could this have happened to me... again? Please let everything be okay. Please let my mother be all right."
Remnants of the phone call came playing back in my mind.
"Is this Rosa DeMello?"
"Yes. Who's this?"
"My name is Dr. Scott."
"How can I help you doctor?"
"I'm so sorry to be the bearer of bad news at this hour, but..."
"But what?"
"Your mother was admitted to the hospital forty-five minutes ago. She suffered a severe heart attack. We've managed to get her heartbeat steady again, but it's not looking well. I don't think she'll make it through the night."
I felt my head spinning in a thousand directions, my stomach was turning, and I wanted to vomit. Darkness fell over my eyes even though the lights were on. I couldn't think or speak of anything. All I could feel was my heart pounding through my chest and the immense pain piercing my body.
"Hello! Hello!! Are you still there Rosa?"
My thoughts regained their organization as I remembered the doctor was still on the line. "Yes, doctor. I'm still here," I said somberly. "How is she now?"
" Not very well. She's unconscious and extremely weak. If there were ever a time to say your last goodbye-it's now. I can't stress enough how critical it is for you to get down here immediately."
"Where is she?"
"She's at St. Luke's Hospital in New Bedford. Do you know where that is?"
Before he could finish, I put the phone down and ran out the door. And here I am now. Still in shock. How could this be happening? The pain in my stomach hurt so bad. Memories kept flooding my mind. But not the type of memories you'd think a person in this situation would have.
They weren't good memories, or thoughtful memories, or sweet memories. No, they were awful memories about hatred and scorn. Memories filled with hurt, tears and name-calling. Scary memories were all I had of my mother.
In my teens and her early thirties, she was a very successful hairdresser. She was sociable and had a personality that could make anyone smile. She loved what she did and was excellent at it. She had long, curly, dirty-blond hair. She stood 5'5" and had crystal blue eyes. My father once called her a healthy mule. And he was right. My mother was a very healthy person. She was also fashionable. People thought her to be my older sister on many occasions.
I, on the other hand, was the total opposite. I loved sports and hated dresses. Heck, I hated dressing up period. I would rather wear an old baseball cap, jeans, a sports shirt, and sneakers over a dress any day. I was always off doing some type of sports activity. To my father, I was the son he never had. I'd spend most of my time with my father practicing or attending a big game. Yeah, I was daddy's little girl.
Everyone was fine with the way things were going until one day when my mother received a phone call. I was in the other room waiting for my dad to come home so we could play catch when I heard a god awful shriek from my mother.
Terrified, I ran to the next room to find my mother on her knees with the telephone on the ground.
"Mom, what's wrong?" I said desperately.
My mother, in tears, tried to compose herself long enough to explain to me what had happened. As she told me, I too lost feeling in my legs and fell to the ground in agony. Tears fell down my face. My father had been in a car accident with a drunken driver and was killed instantly along with the drunk.
I snapped myself back into reality. Those memories were too terrible to remember.
Hatred. That's a pretty strong word to use on anyone. Now try to imagine feeling that towards the person who carried you for nine months and then went through nineteen hours of labor. That's all I could feel for her for many years.
"What are you doing home so late young lady?"
"I'm eighteen years old, and it's none of your business."
"None of my business?"
"Yeah, that's right."
"Of course it's my business to know why my daughter has come home at 4:00 a.m. on a school night. Where were you?"
"I told you it's none of your business."
"Are you going to tell me where you were or do I have to threaten you?"
"Go ahead. Threaten me all you like. You're not going to get a straight answer out of me."
"Oh, is that so?"
"Yeah."
"Fine. I'll take away your car and license privileges."
"You can't do that!"
"Oh yes I can. I own more than half of that car, and I paid for your license. So all I have to do is make one little phone call downtown. Now are you going to tell me or not?"
"Not!"
"Fine. Give me your car keys and license."
"Here. Take them."
I turned and began to walk my room scornfully.
"I hate you," I mumbled.
"What did you say?"
I turned back around to face her, and louder and more sternly I said, "I hate you. I wish you died in that car crash and not dad. At least the parent I could actually get along with would be alive today."
"Oh, is that what you wanted? Well, I'm sorry. I'm sorry you didn't get your wish. Maybe you're right. Maybe you would be happier if I were the one who died, but it didn't work out that way. So you're going to have to put up with me for the rest of my life."
"Well then, let's hope it's a short one."
"Go to your room. I don't want to see you for a long time."
"Fine by me."
I turned my head in utter disgust. One of a million memories of hatred. But not hatred of her toward me. Only me toward her. I wanted her to know that I hated her, and I made sure to burn it into her skull every single day of the year. And not a night went by that I didn't hear her crying into her pillow. Crying to my father and asking him to give her the strength to get to my heart so she could be a mother to me again. Every night when I heard this it made me want to destroy her more.
When I was old enough, I moved to New York. I wanted to get as far away from her as my money could take me. I lived there until I was thirty-five. A job transfer brought me back to New Bedford only three weeks ago. No sooner did I arrive did the fights start. It was the same old topic starting out the same old way and ending with the same old phrases. "I hate you" seemed to be the only three words I said consistently to her. She ran off crying, and I haven't talked to her since.
My pain never went away. It only got worse. Too many bad memories quickly surfaced. My heart was racing. All I wanted to do was get to my mother before I lost the chance to tell her what had always been in my heart, but that I had been too angry over my father's death to tell her. I used my mother as a scapegoat for my pain and suffering.
My need to be with my mother pushed my foot straight down on the gas pedal. My car sped off, and I convinced myself that if I were too late, my life would be put into question.
"I hate you. I wish I were never born. You're not my mother. Why couldn't you have been in that car instead of him. You're not my boss. Who do you think you are? My mother? I have no mother. I hate you. I hate you! I hate you!!"
"All those nasty things I said to her. Why? Why? Why? Why do I have to realize this now when she's on her death bed. Why? Why now?"
My eyes got a little foggy and slowly tears began to fall. I quickly reached over to grab some tissues. "No, I have to be strong for her." But I couldn't stop them. They just kept rolling off my cheeks. Stop. Damn you. Stop!
The bright headlights of the car came upon a green sign: St. Luke’s Hospital. 1 mile: exit B.
My tears stopped suddenly, and I was filled with determination. Determination to get to my mother and put both of our hearts at peace before...before...well, before it wouldn't be able to be done in the proper way.
"Hold on Mom, I'm coming," I said decisively.
The hospital was pretty full for even this hour of the night. But that didn't stop me from running right up to the front desk.
"Hello. Can I help you? " said the nurse.
"Yes, hi. I'm looking for a patient of yours by the name of Cecelia DeMello," I said quickly.
"Please hold one minute while I check."
The one-minute seemed like hours passing by my life.
"Yes, we do have a Cecelia DeMello. Are you family?"
"I'm her daughter," I said proudly. "May I see her?"
"Yes, you may. She's in room AB6."
My heart began pounding again as I approached a large, brass door. My stomach began to turn again as my hand pulled the knob down. I took one last deep breath to calm myself a little then I slowly pushed the door open.
The room was no bigger than two jail cells. It was an obedient white colour as were all the rooms. There were no curtains on the single window in the corner of the room. Big, black bars framed the outside. No decorations or flowers had been brought up to comfort her. I felt a bit ashamed that I, as well, didn't bring anything for her.
Then, as my eyes fixated on the centre of the room, I saw a long, square bed with many machines surrounding it. All of the different noises came together in one mesmerizing apparition. The sound was very loud. It was drowning out even my own thoughts. As I got closer, I could see a small, fragile woman through the machines. She looked as if she hadn't eaten for days. She was as pale as a ghost. Her eyes were glued shut. All of the machines were doing their jobs around my mother's body. I almost cringed while looking at her.
I pulled up a chair and sat next to her. My mind went blank. I reached for her hand and held it gently with my own. I began to stroke it soothingly. My bottom lip quivered as the tears came rushing down once again.
"I never meant for this to happen to you. I... I... I need you to come back to me mom. You're all I have in the world now. You can't leave me, not now. Please come back to me."
I lowered my head in utter despair and kissed her hand ever so gently. As I lifted my head I felt a faint squeezing from her weak hand and then I heard a slight moan.
"Mom," I said anxiously. "Mom. Come on Mom, open your eyes. Look at me. Look at your daughter."
Her eyes slowly opened, and her head followed the sound of my voice. Dazed and confused, she asked me where she was and what had happened. I began to tell her the whole story. Her emotions and expression never changed. She didn't have enough strength to show them as she wanted to. A long pause came over us both. I decided to speak first.
"Mom, I 'm just going to come out and say it. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all the awful things I said to you. I want you to know that I didn't mean anything I said. I know it seemed like I hated you and all, but seeing you here it's more evident to me than ever that I love you."
At that moment a huge weight was lifted from my shoulders and a sign of peace came over me.
"What did you say?" my weakened mother asked.
"I said I love you Mom."
Tears came rushing down my mother's face. Not tears of sorrow but tears of joy.
"Oh, I don't know how long I have waited to hear you say those words, and how many times I would dream of you speaking them to me. But nothing is as fulfilling as actually hearing them from you."
"Mom, I'm so sorry for all the terrible things I have ever said to you. And I'm sorry that it took me until now when you're deathly ill to say I love you."
"My daughter, I love you so much. You never lost a place in my heart. You will always be there no matter what happens. I love you."
At that moment she closed her eyes, tilted her head back and then let go.
"Mom, Mom are you all right? Mom, Mom please don't leave me."
Tears came pouring down as I realized that my mother had passed on. "No, Mom."
The nurses and doctors ran in and tried to revive her. I knew they would be unsuccessful.
I left the room in tears. I found a water tank and stood by it. 'I love you' is all that came into my mind. "You will always be in my heart, mother."
The tears stopped coming down. I wiped off the wetness, looked up, smiled, and thought...here's my happy memory.
